Tea For Two
by Haydee
Summary: Young Justice Fic-- The future becomes uncertain for the boys when three strangers appear...


Allllllll right! This is my first attempt at a Young Justice fic, so sue me, I wanted to try something lighthearted for a change. Nevertheless, those of you who've read my Batman stories will already know that I will have failed in any such attempt because it is physically, emotionally, and psychologically impossible for this little girl to write anything that isn't depressing, or, at the least, bittersweet. So, here we have it, Young Justice--tragedy-style. Get out your hankies, ladies and gents. Unless of course you are as sick as I am and happen to like this sort of thing.  
  
Teddy, this one is just for you. ;)  
  
  
  
Tea For Two  
  
by Haydee  
  
  
Robin had been trying all afternoon to get Superboy to focus on something constructive, anything at all. Normally he would have shaken his head and declared that it wasn't his job to get the narcissistic, self-centered, girl-obsessed, testosterone-filled alien on task and preparing for whatever crisis might pop up next, but the fact was that Batman had been talking to him lately about his role in leadership of the group, and how maybe he needed to work on getting the other members of the team to shoulder their own weight... as it was, he felt like he spent half his time cleaning up after Bart and scraping tape off the walls. The tape, of course, being left over after Kon-El obeyed Robin's near-knifepoint demand to "take down" the playboy foldouts he'd pinned to the wall.  
  
"How do you think that looks to the girls?" he'd asked, exasperated beyond belief.  
  
Superboy had smirked in self-satisfaction. "Sez I appreciate beautiful things," he'd returned.  
  
Robin was not amused.  
  
But that had been yesterday, and today the goal was simply to get Superboy off the couch and into the air or on his feet or hands or whatever the heck he preferred. Bart was okay; he had started him off ten minutes ago with a box of crayons and it would be another twenty before the wax was all gone. But with Superboy... things were not going exactly as he had planned.   
  
And then, of course, things really fell off the track when the second one appeared.  
  
"Holy cra--" he started to say, and cut himself off short.   
  
"Oh, please," Superboy said. "Like I'm gonna fall for that."  
  
Robin looked back and forth between the two and noticed immediately that they had different shoelaces. Good; as long as the clone didn't notice, he could tell them apart. "Uh, I'm... not really joking, Kon," he said.  
  
"Honest, he's not," said the second Superboy. He quirked an eyebrow.  
  
Kon-El rolled his eyes. "If you're-- whoa, what the heck--" he spun at the other's voice, and immediately threw himself into action-- only to be pinned neatly against the wall.  
  
"Listen," Kon II said. "I'm not Match, it's okay."  
  
Robin was easing his finger to a small pouch on his belt.  
  
"And no need to open your little utility belt, alright Bat-boy?" he added. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."  
  
Robin frowned. "And why, exactly, should we believe you?" he asked, letting his finger slip into the pouch anyway.  
  
Kon II shrugged nonchalantly. "I dunno, you figger it out."  
  
"It's all right; I'll vouch for him."  
  
Robin spun, and found himself immediately and rather uncomfortably face-to-chest with a tall, lean man who might have been in his early thirties. His hair was a little on the long side, but trimmed and parted nicely, and he wore a long black trench coat. "And, uh, who are you?" Robin asked, stepping back to put a little space between them. On a second thought he backed up another step, this time to his left, so he could see both of the intruders without shifting his gaze. He was wondering how they had found their way into their Happy Harbor Headquarters.   
  
"HeyguysIheardanoisewhatsgoinon?" Lightning sparked and Impulse appeared, crayon smudges all over his face and hands and-- yep, knees too, when Robin looked down.   
  
The teenage vigilante leader colored slightly in embarrassment. Great, he thought. We're supposed to be super heroes here, and Bart shows up covered in crayon... He felt like slapping a hand to his forehead.  
  
"Whoa,who'reyou?" Bart asked, craning his neck to look at the tall stranger. "And--ack!" His eyes bulged at the duplicate Superboy. Suddenly he was on the opposite side of the room, his back pressed against the wall, looking pointedly at Robin for some explanations.  
  
"Here," said the tall man, stepping forward. He put out a hand, and Robin crouched, prepared to fight. But there was no strike; rather, he merely extended a long finger, and held his position. After a moment of silence he raised one eyebrow in what seemed to be mild amusement. "You were thinking of taking a blood test, weren't you?" he asked mildly. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.  
Robin frowned, gritted his teeth, and pulled forth the small needle and case he had been reaching for. He didn't like anyone smartass enough to guess his moves out loud. It made him... suspicious.  
"Go ahead," said the stranger. "Compare it to the samples in your database. Then everything will be clear."  
  
Robin hesitated once more. "The Kon clone backs off first," he said.  
  
"Kon, if you would..." the stranger began suggestively.  
  
"Yeah, whatever." He flew back to one corner of the cave and hovered in midair.  
  
"Stay, Kon," Robin warned the original, as the white-shoelaced Superboy ruffled and looked as if he wanted to go back for a second try.  
  
"Yeah, whatev--" he stopped, and let himself drift off into a sulk.  
  
Robin looked back at the stranger, who held his finger out again. He reached out and quickly pricked the end, which bled freely. "You, ah, want some cotton to stop..." What the heck am I saying? He cut himself off mentally. Okay, potential enemy, and what do you do, but go and ask him if he wants a band-aid for his boo-boo...  
  
"It's all right," the stranger said, with that quirk of a smile again. Robin stopped as he turned, and then continued, but for a moment, just a moment, he thought he recognized something...  
  
He stepped cautiously back to the console, where he slid the sample under a broad-spectrum light. For a moment, it whirred, analyzing.  
  
Impulse was beside him. "Whoizzee?" he asked, squinting at the analysis on the screen "whoizzee?"  
Robin paused, reading the data. He frowned. Then he tilted his head to look around the computer console. The stranger's smile grew, just a little, and he seemed to shrug. But Robin saw it. He turned back to Impulse. "He's... *you,*" he said.  
  
"Indeed," the stranger murmured. "As is Kon-El himself; fortunately the mechanics of space-time allowed us to exist in the same time-frame without..." he drifted off, and looked down at his young counterpart, who was gazing up at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He laughed softly. "Could that really have been me?"  
  
And then Impulse was done being stunned; he whipped in and about, circling the stranger in the black trench coat countless times in the five seconds that passed. "What'sthis?" he asked, "howdoesthisthing work? Waitaminute,Ithought--" Then he stopped again, and resumed his former position of gawking. He pointed, glancing for a minute back at Robin. "It'sme,Rob!" he said. "Look,it'sme!"  
  
Robin cleared his throat. "All right, now that we've gotten that straightened out--" he glanced to the corner, where the dual Superboys were finished with apologies and were now exchanging compliments regarding oneanother's apparel and hairstyles; for all purposes but the shoelaces, perfectly identical. Robin looked back at the stranger, whom he could hardly imagine to be Bart, somehow adult, calm, and... motionless. "Could you fill us in on what's happening?"  
  
"Of course, Ti-- ah, sorry, it's still Robin, isn't it?"  
  
Robin scowled. "For the moment, yes, please."  
  
"May I sit down?"  
  
With a telltale *zwip!* Impulse was standing behind him, holding the back of a chair he had gotten from his room. It was small for the tall man, but he seated himself casually, flipping up his coattails to free them from hindrance as he did. "Thank you, Bart."   
  
"Heyyou'rewelcome-- uh--" he stopped. "Bart?"  
  
"Mr. Allen will be sufficient, if it's a bit confusing for you."  
  
Impulse looked slightly chagrined. "Yeahsurethat'sokay," he mumbled, and retreated to fidget timidly from behind Robin.   
  
"So--?" prompted Robin, again.  
  
"Of course. Quite simply, we've arrived from the future. Tycho-- an enemy you have not yet encountered, although you shall in the not-too-distant future-- unfortunately discovered our Happy Harbor residence, and invaded. His methods involve space-time interferences which I would not begin to explain; nevertheless, in defeating him-- and we did, I believe-- we were accidentally shunted back along the continuum. According to our calculations, we should return as the distortion wears off, but in the meantime we are stuck here, in the past."  
  
Robin stepped forward a little, less cautious now as he began to trust the pair, and was cautious of a small red-and-white shadow accompanying him. "So... you're just gonna hang around for a while, and that's that?" he asked.  
  
"If there are no objections, of course. We can always find shelter elsewhere, but the effects should last only a matter of hours. I thought---"  
  
"Hey, guys?" Superboy interrupted.  
  
"What is it?" Robin and Mr. Allen queried in irritated unison.  
  
Both duplicates tossed a thumb over his own shoulder. "We're gonna hit the beach, kapish?"  
  
"Kon-El--" began Allen, but the "older" Superboy interjected.  
  
"I just wanna see Venice beach once more, huh? You know it's gone now..."  
  
Allen waved a hand. "Go, go."  
  
They grinned, slapped high-fives, and were gone.  
  
Allen turned back, and glanced from Robin to his younger self, peering out a little fearfully from behind. "I thought," he started again, "that while I'm here, I might get a little... one on one time, so to speak, with Bart. What do you say... Bart?"  
  
Impulse clung to Robin's sleeve. "He's-- really me," he whispered. "He's me, Rob!"  
  
Robin turned around, catching the boy by the shoulders, then sighed hopelessly and used the corner of his cape to wipe the crayon smudges from his face. The costume would have to be dry-cleaned later. "He won't eat you, Bart," he pronounced tolerantly. "But he wants to talk to you. Go on."  
  
"And-- ahem-- before we go..." Allen hesitated. "Might I have one or two of my personal items returned?"  
  
Robin turned his eyes accusingly upon Impulse, whose lip quivered guiltily, his big brown eyes gazing with a look of imploring innocence. There was a brief clatter as the pilfered items dropped to the floor.  
  
"Thank you," the older Allen said mildly, and bent while still sitting in the chair to retrieve the items. Most disappeared in a blur of hands-- proving that he was, indeed, still capable of super-speed even if he did not clearly evince it as Bart tended to do-- but one small box he held in his hand, and, after another moment's hesitation, placed to his mouth. He breathed inward, and then out again, and the box was gone. "Come, Bart," he said, standing. "We'll go for a walk."  
  
He put his hand-- firmly-- upon Bart's shoulder, and they started for the exit.  
  
Robin, finding himself suddenly alone in the cavernous room, cleared his throat slightly. "Ah-- Mr. Allen?" he asked.  
  
Allen turned. "Yes-- Robin," he said, getting it right this time with only a slight hesitation.  
  
Robin looked, in spite of his calm, collected facade, more than a little uneasy. "Both-- uh, you and Superboy are here... What-- what about me?"  
  
The stranger stopped. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. "Well--" he started, sounding much more apologetic than Robin wanted to hear.  
  
But a voice interrupted him, low and husky. "I'm here," it whispered, and in the corner, a shape detached itself from the shadows.  
  
Robin spun.  
  
"We'll-- leave you two alone now," Allen said diplomatically, and he and Bart disappeared.  
  
The shape hovered on the edge of the shadows, as though reluctant to come into the light.   
In all his time with Batman, the legendary Dark Knight of myth and nightmare-- in all the times that Bruce had brooded, dark and eruptive at a moment's provocation-- in all that time, Robin had never been so frightened as he was at this moment.  
  
For this was no thing of dreams and legends; neither was it Bruce Wayne, or anything apart from himself, something he could escape, run away from, kill, destroy, anything-- no, there was no escaping this, because it was himself.  
  
And suddenly, Timothy Drake was terrified of who he would become.  
  
And then he was angry.  
  
"Why are you staying back there?" he asked, almost accusing. "Why didn't you just come out to begin with, like the others? Who-- who are you--?" He heard his voice crack. He didn't want to know, he didn't want to know at all--  
  
The shadow slid forward a little, but still did not come fully into the light. "Allen handles these things now," it whispered.  
  
Robin hated the whisper. He was never afraid to speak up. Why didn't he just speak up? "So, what," he asked, "Bart's in charge now? Problem child runs the show?"  
  
"Allen is smarter than he appears; he always was. Nevertheless, no. When decisions must be made, I am the one who makes them. I lead the team." All this, whispered, low and husky. Then there was silence.  
  
Robin wasn't buying. "If you really are me," he challenged finally, "come out. Show yourself. You don't have anything to hide from me, because I am you. In fact, you should be remembering this whole thing from my point of view."  
  
"That-- is why I hesitate."  
  
"No," Robin said flatly. "No. Come out, then, get it over with. Take off your costume. And stop whispering, will you? You sound just like--"  
  
The shadow flinched.  
  
"Him," Robin finished, ruthlessly twisting the knife, just to see the reaction. He got it; the shadow retreated, and became one with the darkness in the corner once again. "What, are you afraid?" he sneered.  
  
"No," the whisper came. "No... not afraid."  
  
Robin was getting desperate. "Are we just going to stand here the whole time arguing about this, or should I come back later when you feel more like talking?" His sarcasm was obvious.  
  
"I can't."   
  
"Can't what?"  
  
"Come out."  
  
"Because...?"  
  
And suddenly, without warning, a hand of steel and ice flashed out of the shadows, gripping Robin at the collar. It dragged him with startling force into it, into the darkness, and pressed him close to something cold and dark and breathing.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?" Robin protested, his voice high.  
  
"Wait," hissed the voice.  
  
Whether he wanted to or not, Robin waited. And after a moment or two, the shape before him, at the end of the arm connected to the steel vice of a hand that held him, came into focus. It was a shape he knew well. "Oh, God, no," he whispered.  
  
His older self was wearing the mantle of the bat.  
  
He pushed at the form, battered it and kicked and struggled with all his might, grunting and crying out formlessly at this thing, this nightmare that was his future, his destiny-- but as much as he struggled, it held him all the tighter, refused, determined not to let go. And finally he exhausted himself, and hung panting, his legs sagging beneath him as the steel glove continued to hold him up.  
  
He looked at the form in the dark, the outline of the shoulders, the savagely pointed ears, the opaque white lenses for eyes, and sighed listlessly.  
  
Then the shape that was him reached up, with his free hand, and rustled a moment with the kevlar weave. It gripped it, then, at the forehead, and pulled. The mask pulled up, and then fluttered to the ground.  
  
Robin screamed.  
  
He never knew, afterwards, if he actually passed out for a moment; perhaps it was only that his shock, his horror and repulsion, was so great that for a split second in which the glove released him, he lost all sense and memory combined. In any case, he found himself suddenly upon the floor of the duty room in Happy Harbor, cradled gently in a warm pool of light, spreading blissfully outward from a lamp that hung above. His cheek was pressed against the cold ground, and he put out his palms to match, praying to God and the heavens above that it had all been nothing, a dream, a nightmare, induced perhaps by a brief moment of unconsciousness in a practice bout with Kon-El...  
Slowly, he pushed himself up. Looked around. Nothing out of the ordinary. It had to have been a dream, some sort of injury-induced hallucination. Already it was fading in his brain, everything except the eyes--  
  
"They saved the photo-receptors," whispered the voice.  
  
Robin leapt to his feet, assuming a defensive stance.  
  
"There would be no point in fighting. I already know everything you're going to do."  
  
And Robin was beaten, his resistance gone. His shoulders slumped, and he slid his feet across the room to let himself fall into a seat at the kitchen table. He cradled his head gently in his hands. "So what happened?" he asked.  
  
"The Joker."  
  
"As usual," he murmured. "So now you-- I'm-- what, the Phantom of the Opera?"  
  
"No. You are the Bat."  
  
He turned suddenly to look over his shoulder at the shadow of nothing, bitterly. "Is there a reason you're still talking like that, or are we just doing that for dramatic effect?"  
  
"The fire also damaged my vocal chords. I'm yelling."  
  
"Great," he whispered, letting his head sink back to the table top.   
  
"There was no other course of action, Tim. I've replayed it a thousand times in my head, looked at it from every angle. There was only one other possibility, and that was impossible."  
  
"And what, may I ask, was that?"  
  
"Bruce Wayne's death."  
  
He was silent for a moment. "Oh," he whispered finally. "So he's still--"  
  
"Alive, yes. An old man. He was the one who managed to salvage what was left of the photoreceptors in my eyes. Fifteen hours of surgery, and I can see well enough in the dark. The damage made them hypersensitive."  
  
"But-- the--" He closed his eyes against the image that came to him, but it was no use. The rippled, burn-scarred skin, and the eyes--   
  
"Bruce saved my receptors-- but the eyes were beyond repair. He had to replace them with something mechanical."  
  
"You said they're sensitive-- so during the day--"  
  
"Do you have any dark glasses?" the husky voice requested.   
  
Automaton-like, Robin stood. "Sure," he whispered under his breath, and went to dig around in Kon-El's stuff. He came back a moment later with a fashionable pair of men's dark glasses. He handed them from the light to the darkness, and turned away again, no longer caring what his other self did with them. He sat down at the table again and closed his eyes.  
  
Behind him, there was a quiet rustle, and a moment later, a quiet tapping. "Robin," the voice whispered.   
  
"Yeah?" he asked, his voice dead.  
  
"That will be sufficient."  
  
Robin sat up again, confused, just in time to see himself, tall, black-haired, and horribly marred, step cautiously to the other side of the table. A hand fumbled sightlessly and finally grasped the back of the chair, and there was a scraping of legs against the floor as he pulled it back and sat down. He reached up briefly to adjust the dark glasses.  
  
"Oh my God," moaned Robin. "You're blind."  
  
"For all intents and purposes-- in the daytime-- yes."  
  
Robin felt very much like crying, but did not. "What do you do?" he asked.  
  
"I am a student-- of Bruce. He's preparing me to-- take over Wayne Enterprises, when he's... gone."  
  
Robin looked away. "So. I am the heir."  
  
"Not only that. You will be his-- son."  
  
"What?"  
  
"After--" he gestured hesitantly to his eyes. "Bruce officially adopted me."  
  
"What, out of guilt?"  
  
He shook his head minutely. "No. No, Timothy. He--" his voice cracked. "He genuinely cares for you, Tim. More than you know."  
  
Robin rubbed his temples. This was hard to take in all at once. "So--" he said at last, and stopped, his voice failing him for a moment. At last, he gained control. "So is that why you did it? Because he wanted you to?" His heart sank. God forbid, he thought, I spend the rest of my life because of what Bruce wants, trying to earn his favor--   
  
"No," the whispered reply came. "You can't understand, right now-- or-- maybe you can, Timothy. Tim, there has to be a Batman. It's-- grown bigger than Bruce, than his mission. Robin-- Robin is dead. But the Bat must live on..."  
  
"But how do you know that?" he asked, almost pleading. "You can't know that--"  
  
"Timothy."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I tried it."  
  
He was cautious. "Tried what?"  
  
"What you're thinking of. I was you, remember? I quit. Went away for two years. Even after he adopted me. That's how I know he cares, because he let me go. But it-- Gotham, Tim-- can't survive, now, without us. The world can't. And there was only one person who could fill Bruce's shoes... Me." He spoke quickly, before Robin could object, anticipating all too well his thoughts. "Not arrogance," he said. "The truth."  
  
"So what, Dick is--"  
  
"Dick is dead."  
  
Robin was silent. Then he stood, and walked away, his head bowed. "I didn't want to know this," he whispered. "Any of it."  
  
"I know."  
  
He spun. "Then why did you tell me? Just so I can sit and obsess about it for the next-- however many-- years?"  
  
"Eight."  
  
"Why, dammit?"  
  
"Because-- if I hadn't known-- I wouldn't have been prepared for it. If I hadn't known, gotten used to it beforehand-- Timothy, there were times I might have tried to end--"  
  
"Oh, God," Robin moaned, cutting him off. "No, no..."  
  
"Timothy-- listen to me. I'm not trying to torture you. You can't understand it now, but I am giving you the seeds of hope. You can survive, and life is bearable--"  
  
"Bearable?" He snorted. "Is that all?"  
  
"There are times of joy. Allen is a good friend, and there are others. You do not have to isolate yourself, as Bruce did."  
  
Robin looked at the man, sitting erect, his stance uncomfortable and uncertain. His hands were on the table, lying flat, palms down. The black glasses gazed at him blindly. He made a face, experimentally.  
  
"No, I can't see you," the figure said. "But I have an excellent memory."  
  
Robin's face reddened, and for a moment-- for a very brief moment-- he was glad his counterpart could not see. "Well," he said, "you came. You told me. The end."  
  
"Indeed, and I feel that I will be returning to my own time very shortly. Just-- one more thing."  
  
"Well-- go ahead, if you're going to."  
  
He paused, gathering himself, and stood. "Don't waste the time that you have, Timothy. Don't spend every hour you have in study, or training-- go out and watch a sunset now and then." His whispered, strained voice fell a little. "For my sake. Try to remember."  
  
Robin was silent again; he didn't know what to say. He watched, unflinchingly, as his other self moved with halting steps back across the floor, fumbling for the shadows, but did not move to help. There were rustlings again, as he assumed the other figure re-adorned himself with mask and cape, and then a hand came out of the blackness, holding the sunglasses towards him.  
  
Robin stepped forward and took them, watching as the hand disappeared once again. He paused. "Is there time for one more question?" he asked finally.  
  
"As I remember--" the reply came, "yes. But speak quickly."  
  
Robin did. His question was short. "Is there a girl?"  
  
A soft, whispered chuckle came from the shadow. "Ah, the teenage mentality."  
  
"Is there?" he said, a little more demanding.  
  
His older self returned only silence for his question. Robin thought that perhaps he had at last disappeared, when the voice came suddenly again, nearly so softly he could not hear. "There is a girl," he said, slowly. "But she is beautiful, and--" it lowered still. "'Only a friend.'"  
  
"But you love her?"  
  
Silence again. "I do."  
  
"Then tell her!" He raised his voice in anger. "Tell her, you fool!"  
  
"Perhaps..." said the whisper, after a long moment, "perhaps I will."  
  
Robin felt in the shadows, to catch him, to pull him into the light, expose him, make him do it--  
  
But he was gone.  
  
***  
  
Impulse trotted alongside of the stranger, nearly tripping over his own large, fire-engine red boots in his earnest eagerness to please. Although his mouth was hanging open, for once in his life it was not to speak, but rather in awe. This person, this big person, this grown adult-man-gentleman, was-- him. Him!   
  
"Watch where you're going, Bart," his older self warned amiably as he put out a hand to keep him from falling for the third time. "Keep your eyes on the road."  
  
They weren't driving, of course, but Impulse found it hard to take his eyes off the lean, hardened face of Mr. Allen, gazing placidly about as they walked down the street in broad daylight. Allen looked down at the boy momentarily. "Perhaps you should put on some clothes more... appropriate to the occasion," he suggested, noticing the stares that met them.  
  
Bart's eyes got very large. "Ohsure!" he exclaimed.  
  
"I'll be waiting--" Allen paused, a faintly puzzled expression upon his face as a spark of lightning revealed Impulse in his Nautica street clothes. "...on the park bench?"  
  
"SorryaboutthatIforgottochange," Impulse explained in one big breath.  
  
After a moment's hesitation, Allen smiled faintly, the first such expression that had come to his face since his arrival. It made Impulse stop, and then, after another beat, grin fully, although he wasn't sure what the joke was. Allen turned and went to the park bench, letting out a soft grunt as he set himself down. He patted the empty space next to him. "Why don't you come sit down for a minute, Bart?" he asked.  
  
"Okay," Impulse agreed readily, already seated. He dangled his feet and looked down at his shoelaces, swinging them in empty air.  
  
Allen gazed at him, with what might have been a grown man's fondness for the restlessness of childhood, or, perhaps more likely, bittersweet remembrance. He patted the boy's shoulder in a fatherlike gesture. "So," he said, "what do you think of things, as they are?"  
  
Impulse looked up at him, a quizzical expression upon his face.  
  
Allen chuckled. "Of course; you don't understand. I remember that, now. Things-- with Max, and Robin, and-- being a superhero."  
  
Bart was out of his seat, literally in a flash. He was in front of Allen, his hands in the air, beside him, waving and gesturing, and all around him in any imaginable position. His mouth had begun at last, and was rattling off at a million miles per minute, also literally. Fortunately Allen could understand him easily. "It's great Mr. Allen!" he was exclaiming. "Last week we-- bam, pow, and whack! It was so great and Rob, he--" Impulse throttled himself. "Acked me, but then, 'It's all right, Bart,' and I was-- and then-- so Max said I could go and-- some money, and this girl-- she kissed-- and eeew!" Bart finished by sticking his tongue out in disgust and wiping desperately at his face to erase the imagined cooties. He stood before Allen, panting slightly. "Wannarun?" he asked suddenly. "WecouldgoforIndianfood, ormaybePakistani." He squirmed in his clothes, antsy to be doing something.  
  
Allen looked at him a moment, his face entirely blank. And then he erupted-- in laughter. It came out a small giggle at first, as if it hadn't emerged in quite some time, and then grew, building and rolling until it was a pleasant, low thunder in Bart's ears.  
  
It was his turn to look blank. "What?" he asked, and watched as Allen continued to guffaw. "What?!"  
  
Allen looked up, paused, and made and attempt to answer-- before being overcome once again by laughter.  
  
Impulse frowned. "I don't get it," he pouted.  
  
This time, Allen spoke through receding chuckles. "You will," he gasped, "in about thirty years."  
  
Bart did not find this particularly funny. Evidently Allen did, however, because he lapsed back into laughter, and then, softly, coughs. Bart watched him curiously as he bent forward slightly, wincing, and finally stopped, merely wheezing breathlessly. When he looked up again, his face was grave.  
"I suppose," he said, drawing in a deep, strained breath, "you've been wondering why we walked down here."  
  
Bart's eyes slid sideways. "Uh... yeah," he said slowly. "I-- was?"  
  
Allen was struggling now to get a breath, and began to pat his own pockets in search of something. "You-- see, Bart," he gasped, "I-- we-- have athsma." He grunted in satisfaction as he found what he was looking for, and put the small box to his mouth, breathing deeply several times. As it came away he let out a long, heavy sigh.  
  
Bart looked at him with large, liquid eyes. "Athsma?" he squeaked, in a very small voice.  
  
Allen sighed again and looked away. "How old are you now, Bart?"  
  
Impulse held up three trembling fingers.  
  
"Two years," he said. "You have two years left."  
  
"T-two?"  
  
"Right now your body is so healthy and young, you can't hardly appreciate the strain. But the chemicals they used on us, Bart, to keep us in the hyper-reality with Dox-- there are side effects, developmentally. Like cigarettes or steroids or anything... as you grow, Bart, things start to go wrong." He glanced at the boy, who was sitting, eyes as big as silver dollars, frozen beside him. He reached out and patted his knee, all the comfort he knew how to give. "I'm sorry, Bart," he said softly.   
  
"B-but--" Bart whimpered.  
  
"I know." He studied the little patch of ground between his shoes. "It'll be hard at first. You'll go to the hospital more than once... I didn't always remember, at first, and sometimes you just have to--" he stopped and shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. "But you won't die, Bart, it won't kill us."  
"But if I can't run--" he whispered.  
  
"You're still fast, in other ways," he countered, and to demonstrate, waved his hands in front of them, the beginnings of a wind tunnel. "You'll still be a super hero." He paused again, then clasped his hands between his knees. "And there are-- other things, Bart. Things you can't understand right now. Things that are-- good-- about it."  
  
Impulse's face contorted. "Like what?!"  
  
"Like-- slowing down." He smiled and let out a soft chuckle when he saw the boy's face. "Believe me, I know how improbable that looks to you right now. But when I was forced to slow down, Bart, I began to see things-- that I had never noticed before. Little things, yes; but I've learned that it's the little things that are most important. I began to appreciate life, to value it, to think about my decisions before I acted. I have no doubt, Bart, that if this hadn't happened, today I would merely be a larger version of you as you are now; either that or something close to Superboy, Lord help us all. I'm glad that didn't happen. I was forced to think, Bart. And when you have super-speed, you cannot imagine what an asset that is. To be able to figure all options, all possible outcomes, the percentages, the probabilities, the pros and cons-- all that, Bart, is just as good as a super power. Better, maybe."  
  
Bart looked at him. His brow furrowed. His lip quavered. "Nooo!" he wailed.  
  
Allen patted his knee again. "Still haven't convinced you? Well; I seem to remember, vaguely, what gave me immediate comfort last time-- do you like girls, Bart?"  
  
He wrinkled his nose. "Not kissing and stuff."  
  
His companion smiled faintly. "Well-- no, we won't talk about that. Just as friends. They're different from boys, aren't they?"  
  
"Ohyeah. Waybetter."  
  
"That's what I thought. What if-- what if slowing down allowed you the presence of mind, and the careful thought-- enough to, ah, 'make friends' with a girl well enough that she wanted to be with you forever?"  
  
Impulse, still put out, shrugged miserably. "Idunno," he said. "Depends."  
  
"On what?"  
  
"If *I* wannabe with *her* forever."  
  
Allen grinned and put his arm about the boy's shoulder. "Let's just say, somehow, that you did. Forever."  
  
"WellthenIguessthatwouldbeokay. Iguess." He still sulked, his head down, long hair in front of his eyes.   
  
"And what if you two... ah... found a way to-- share your friendship with lots of other people, younger people who looked up to you--"  
  
Impulse looked up. "Areyoutalkingaboutsex?" he half-accused, suspiciously.  
  
Allen laughed. "Well, maybe. But I guess I'll leave that for you to figure out. Can't give away all the secrets or it wouldn't be any fun."  
  
The boy's eyes shone liquid once again, and he looked imploringly to his older self. "You-- promise-- it will be okay?"  
  
"I can't tell you it will be easy, son. Especially not at first. But yes. In the end, it will be okay." He tousled Bart's hair affectionately. "You were astounded when I first appeared, weren't you?" he asked. "Thought I was a-- what was it-- gentleman? And you wished you could..."  
  
"Be like that," Impulse whispered.  
  
"You will be, Bart. It comes at a heavy, heavy price... but you will be. You'll make Max proud. Now--" he slapped his own knee and stood. "I think it's about time we're getting back-- before Rob misses you, huh?"  
  
A flicker of a smile passed across Bart's face, and he stood, plodding miserably alongside of his companion. The street seemed darker suddenly, although it was probably just the sun starting to go down, but something had changed. He didn't feel antsy anymore, didn't feel like running. In fact, he felt like he wanted to lay down and curl up and close his eyes and do nothing. Sure, this guy was cool, and Bart had thought once that he would give anything, anything at all, to be what Max wanted.   
But now it looked like he *would* have to give everything.  
  
And it hurt.  
  
Quietly, as they walked, he reached up and slipped his hand into Allen's. "Don't you ever..." Bart whispered quietly, "want to just... run?"  
  
His companion squeezed his hand back gently, in comfort. "Everyone does, Bart. But then the feeling passes, and life goes on."  
  
Bart held the hand very tightly, but after a moment he found that his hand was empty, and when he blinked and looked up, Allen was gone.  
  
***  
  
Robin looked up when Bart returned, but the blankness behind his eyes did not register anything about the familiar face. "So," Robin said dully, "how was your visit?"  
  
Bart blinked. He swallowed. And then he began to cry.  
  
Robin shook his head slightly, ridding himself for the moment of the nightmare visit in favor of the present. "Aw-- don't do that. C'mere, Bart--" he stood up and crossed to the middle of the floor, where Impulse was standing, hands dangling at his sides, large, wet teardrops spilling down his cheeks.  
  
Robin put his arms around Bart, and hugged him tight. "S'okay, Bart," he said, trying to reassure his younger companion. "S'okay. We'll get through it. I promise."  
  
"Hey, that was awesome! Now I wish I *did* have a twin-- the chicks totally dug us. How was your visit, bird-boy?"  
  
Robin looked up to see Superboy floating just above them, sleeves rolled up, flexing and admiring his own muscles. "Clear out for a while, Kon," he commanded in a low, warning tone.   
Superboy lifted his shades and eyed them. "You know who you just sounded like, don't you. Your--"  
  
"No," said Robin, cutting him off. "I don't want to know who I sound like. Now just clear out a while, okay?"  
  
He shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I gotta go sort my girls... by month." Grinning, he flew off and was gone.  
Bart clung to Robin tightly, still sobbing. When Superboy was gone, he looked up at Robin, blinking his large, watery eyes. "I don't wanna grow up," he sobbed. "Rob, Idon'twannagrowup!"  
  
Robin hugged him again. "I know, kid," he said. "I know. ...Neither do I."  
  
  
The End  
  
  
Thanks for reading! Comments, as always, would be appreciated, and if you liked this one, do a search for my name and read my Batman stories! (Shameless plug.)  
  
--Haydee 


End file.
